Another Tear
by Shelly Quills Webster
Summary: Dilandau’s facial injury and apparent failure as a soldier bring pity and the desire to escape. But he finds that there is no escaping himself. One-Shot. Series.


"Another Tear"

by Shelly Webster

Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne, but I do own the notebook and piece of cardboard this story were written out on.

A/N: This story started with just the ending, because that happened to me the other day when I was very upset. And I went "perfect for an angsty fic!" Thanks to my beta, D.

Summary: Dilandau's facial injury and apparent failure as a soldier bring pity and the desire to escape. But he finds that there is no escaping himself. One-Shot. Series.

He poked the center of his bandage again. _"Prick."_ The shot of pain was a punishment he needed – a reminder of his failure.

It was bleeding again.

He already had to have the bandage replaced several times when his cut bled through from his prodding.

Everytime, the physician warned that he would create a scar.

He already had a scar there because he would never be able to forget being wounded. This way he was not hiding his shame.

He knew what soldiers are to do.

Finally, he hid away from the doctors and others who now all pitied him and kept suggesting that he leave the cut alone; that he forget – forget his failure. He – Lord Dilandau Albatou, commander of the Dragon Slayers, had run away.

It did him no good.

He wished to run away from so much more – from his failures and his fears.

With every step away from the people that pestered him, it was only a step further into the concerns of his own mind.

That was a voice which he could never shut up, regardless of how much he drank.

The empty bottles of wine in his room were just more emptiness and imperfection within his soul.

He had now locked himself in his bathing facilities. Two locked doors and a large bureau pushed against one of them separated him from everyone else aboard the Vione.

Dilandau had already shattered the mirror hanging in there, because every day he saw only his deep pain therein. Finally fed up with that sensation, he had punched it the day before.

His left hand now had a white bandage to match the one on his cheek. At least with the mirror shattered he had no visual reminder of what Van had succeeded in doing.

His narrow feet were bare – the sturdy boots he wore, though effective in battle, were clearly not designed for sneaking around.

He did not care much for them anyhow, unless he was using them to kick Folken.

The fair youth paced across the bathroom. Though it was a large room, considering it was only for one person's use, it was still a cage and prison to him.

_Prick._

His focus on the bandage and his less than pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain in the sole of his foot. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, lifting his now-bloody foot. A piece of the mirror which had not gotten swept up with the rest was wedged there amidst the claret-colored fluid.

The mirror fragment could still reflect, but now it would reflect his blood and even more pain.

The youth pulled it out, leaving the blood as it was. Bleeding was another way of feeling. His body cried that all it ever felt was pain. He flung the glassy fragment into the furthest corner of the room.

A trail of bloody footprints now led across the room to his location. It was well that there was no way for anyone to locate him and actually get him.

But that wasn't good enough.

He had to hide himself better.

Maybe then he would find some peace.

He lifted himself down from the ledge into the bathtub. He stretched out, feet crossed and touching the end with the drain. His back rested against the other end, propping him up in a sitting position.

He just sat there in the dry, empty bathtub. A lone drop of water fell from the spout, landing on his foot, near his toes. It trailed down the bare foot.

Another tear.

His eyes had now been dry for years, but still he cried. His cries were anger.

Anger was all a soldier like him was allowed.

But he was a failure, in so many more ways than just getting injured.

He dwelled within his pain, not enjoying it, but at least knowing it was familiar and that it was solely his.

No one could – or would – take it away from him.

He was not certain he would let anyone do so.

It did not matter.

He had his tears, even if they would never fall from his eyes.


End file.
